Poetry

Weekend in the capital

I’m 65 per cent more likely to be myself here

in the capital of same-sex coupledom

it’s true I like to button up

but every move is motion-censored

corridors slicked, bathrooms retro-

futured with sci-fi peepholes in galleries

where the staff wear ear pieces

there’s no signal between concrete walls

we visit Questacon’s touring moon but can’t get a good view

when I leave the Airbnb bedroom, the sonic echo

of Alexa trails, do you feel

pain? outside a woman sews herself

to a beanbag – it’s contemporary

you can get a soft wash on every corner

just don’t opt for the cuddle ‘n’ bubble package on Northbourne

head south instead to the roundabout rainbow

call me paranoid but all the couples

do cryptic over coffee – conspiracy?

we play tourist in the brutalist bunkers

where the bus never shows for FIFO poets

unaware of low-stakes

local politics

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